


The M Word

by MrsPurplePebble



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsPurplePebble/pseuds/MrsPurplePebble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today of all days Watson has decided its time to broach the M word with Holmes.<br/>How Watson first told Holmes about Mary, his reaction, and how Holmes got Watson to agree to taking one more case with him. </p><p>Set before the first RDJ film.</p><p>“If you do not doubt me Watson, then you cannot doubt my facts about what is to occur. Although the future cannot be seen it can be deduced, as with everything in life.” Watson shook his head, but it failed to deter the detective. “Yes Watson the future can be very clear in some cases.  The fact that you will disappear from me is as certain as a captive tiger once loose will turn on its keeper.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

The M Word  
  
Part one

Sitting with his feet up, and his hat riding low on his crown just about skimming the top of his eyes, Watson turned the page of the medical book in his lap and sighed. He had been waiting for Holmes for over an hour now, and he was bored.

Despite the medical book being open at three quarters of the way through, he hadn’t read a word.

Not that he needed to, it was a well studied tome that Watson kept more out of fondness of his days studying to be a doctor than for a practical purpose.  If he had looked at it this morning he would have noticed, much to his dismay, Holmes’ minute but precise handwriting littering the margins, and his frustrations would have doubled.

However he daren’t risk distracting himself by a glance at the book he knew so well, just in case in that second he missed his companion appearing. Instead his eyes stayed fixed resolutely to the doorway. His dedication to the task of seeing his roommate at the very first opportunity even had him sitting in the detective’s battered leather chair rather than his own. Closer to the fireplace it held a more direct view of the door.

Today was the day he was going to have the conversation. The conversation that had dogged his every thought since it had very first occurred to him with the stomach clenching realisation that he would have to do so. The ever-growing dread at the mere thought of it, had disrupted his sleep more the last week than even Holmes’ violin playing, and after having rehearsed it a hundred different ways he realised he couldn’t delay it any longer. It was now or never, and that simple insight had forced him from his bed this morning, before dawn, to sit in this uncomfortable chair, unread book on his lap, waiting, while a pulse far higher than he liked throbbed at his temple.  

Even if the detective hadn’t been on a case, the doctor would not have been surprised by the fact that he wasn’t asleep, as most of the civilised world was at this hour. In truth over the years he had grown far too used to Holmes’ unpredictable habits to be surprised by much.

Watson was vaguely perplexed by Holmes’ absence in the living quarters however. It wasn’t that it was unusual for the detective to be out in the wider world at any ungodly hour, stalking his latest prey, collecting all the undeniable evidence that was to be offered up to the police, once his own interest had waned and the certainty of a conviction for the guilty party was obtained. It was more the fact that he hadn’t pulled Watson from his own sleep with a demand that he go with him, which niggled at the doctor.  He wasn’t even close to foolish enough to believe Holmes had finally listened to his reprimands of such behaviour and altered them as requested.

Thinking of the case that seemingly demanded Holmes’, and only Holmes’ attention, Watson realised he knew very little of it. If he was honest, it was because he hadn’t been listening when Holmes had read him the letter aloud from this very chair the previous morning. If he truly stretched his mind all he could come up with was something about some missing jewellery. Not the kind of case Holmes would normally get excited about, Watson realised now.

Looking around him Watson, reluctantly distracted from his mission, was now intrigued.  Looking to the cluttered work desk on his right he wondered if the letter would give a depth to the mystery that he had missed. Standing he moved to the piece of furniture so chemically stained and abused that he occasionally, if a little fancifully, wondered whether it was the very reason Holmes did not like windows being opened in the room, unless strictly necessary. He too was under the impression that the slightest breeze could reduce the desk to little more than firewood.  He knew for a fact the only reason the back leg still stood in place was the pile of books cleverly arranged around it, holding it there.

Sighing as his hands moved over the paperwork, it was quickly clear this would be a fruitless task. He had no hope of finding the letter Holmes had read him in the pile of paperwork currently littering the surface. Even if he did make the effort to sift through it all, there was every chance that Holmes, having gleaned all important details, had simply burnt the missive begging for his skills.

Looking around him again he tried to think laterally. Thankfully after all the time they had spent together this was not so much of a challenge as it once would have been for the doctor.

“Now why would Holmes…?” Watson spoke aloud to himself in the room, but before he had time to feel embarrassed by it, or at least search for the dog to try and fool himself it had been aimed at the creature, his gaze caught on the hideous painting nearest the door, the flames of the far fire reflecting on its frame.

Holmes had once described it as the perfect example of an artist skilful enough to hide every trace of talent he might own. Watson just thought it was an eyesore. But there was something more important about it than the friends’ differing opinions.

Approaching it carefully, and with gentle pressure on the left side of the frame Watson swung it away from the wall to expose Holmes’ triple lock fire proof safe. Looking at the cold, smooth lines of the steel safe, Watson felt a touch of a thrill. Although he probably owned as much of what was hidden away behind the inch-thick door as Holmes did, it was not accessible to him.

Holmes took responsibility for their money, had done ever since Watson had his arm broken at a game of cards that got out of hand.

Was this the reason why Holmes had taken such a seemingly empty case? Was the safe too empty as rent day approached too fast?

Reaching out he rested his fingers on the dial, and wished not for the first time he had the same kind of deductive powers Holmes exhibited. That way he would either be able to tell what was in it, or at very least somehow know, without being told, the code to open it.

 “Ah, Watson, you’re awake.”

Spinning around with a jump Watson felt a guilty flush assault his cheeks as if he’d been caught with his fingers in the biscuit tin.

 The very person he had been waiting for all this time stood silently, and a little too close to him, in the now open doorway. For a few paranoid moments Watson couldn’t help but wonder if the detective had actually been waiting outside the door for the last hour, just so he could catch Watson at the moment to make him most uncomfortable. He wouldn’t put it past him.

“I wasn’t...” he began to defend himself as Holmes reached past him and casually pushed the picture back to the wall, once more hiding the safe. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He watched as a frown momentarily creased the detective’s face, and his eyes went once more over the doctor’s shoulder. “In my safe?”

Watson rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure if the gesture was at himself, or the way the detective could force such seriousness into his eyes and still be able to ask such a ridiculous question. “Our safe and no, Holmes, not in the safe.”

“I should think not.” Holmes replied, entering the room fully and heading towards his desk.  “As empty as it is, I hardly think I could fit. Gladstone however...” Holmes paused and tilted his head in the way that meant he was planning something. It was an action that always caused Watson some concern, but before he had time to forbid him of attempting any such experiment the detective seemed to dismiss the idea himself with a shake of his head.

Turning quickly Holmes suddenly reached out to him. “Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Just...” Holmes took possession of his wrist as if he didn’t need the consent Watson would of course give him, and before he even had time to realise what was happening, Holmes forced a solid golden signet ring along the length of his right index finger. It was heavy enough to speak of expense, but light enough to be comfortable.

 “Hmm, it fits.” Holmes’ voice was barely audible as he muttered to himself. “But that would mean…”

The words to question Holmes’ actions were on the edge of falling from Watson’s lips when he forced his shoulders straight and took a deep breath. If he wished to stay true to his own path he couldn’t risk falling in to the rapid stream of consciousness that was currently running through the great detective’s head at that specific moment. He knew from past experience that it could lead him just about anywhere.

 “Holmes I’ve met a woman,” he announced a little ineloquently, failing to remember any of the dozen opening gambits he had practiced.  Bracing himself the moment the words were loose he waited for the response, but none came. “Holmes did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes said, quick fingers searching for something that Watson didn’t know on his desk. “You’re always meeting women, this is not news.”

“Holmes I’m serious.” Watson had to stop himself from punctuating the end of his sentence with a stamp of his foot.  

Holmes failed to react again with any speed, turning back to him only when the book he was looking for was in his hands and his eyes down scanning the pages. “So am I. You come home smelling of perfume at least once a week, which would seem to suggest... you meet many a woman.”

Frustrated that the start of the conversation was going so badly, Watson stomped forward and slapped his hand onto the open book Holmes was engrossed in pulling it from his grasp. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me,” he accused when Holmes’ eyes finally returned to him.

Holmes peered at him in that way that reminded Watson of Gladstone and the look of intrigue and confusion you got when presenting the pup with a new treat.  

“You have given me nothing to misunderstand,” Holmes spoke, destroying the illusion.

As far as Watson was concerned Gladstone never spoke. Well there was that one time, but the doctor now suspected that was more to do with the bottle of rum he had consumed than any miraculous experiments of Holmes’, as he had suspected at the time.

“You simply remarked you have met a woman. Your apparent anger at my assertion that this is nothing new, however, speaks volumes. You expect me to be impressed? Interested?” Holmes didn’t pause for an answer. “Women are a fact of the world. I in fact have met several today. The first being the driver of the hansom I took this morning. As much as she lowered her voice and bound her body, her identity was obvious to me. Not that I would report a girl simply trying to earn her family money while her father was sick, but still a woman she was. The very latest being Mrs Hudson on the stairs outside. She is fussing as ever, and seems particularly worried about...”

“Holmes!” Watson could take no more, the detective was torturing him and he was struggling to work out if it was deliberate. As Holmes walked away slowly, dropped into his chair and reached for his pipe before answering, he knew that it was.

“Watson?”

“I want you to meet her.” Finally the Doctor saw some flicker of an unplanned emotion on Holmes’ face, and he quickly had to swallow his pride at being able to surprise the man.

Fiddling with his pipe Holmes avoided Watson’s gaze. “I don’t see that’s necessary, you know I indulge you in your… little habits that you seem to find important.”

Watson was no longer surprised that Holmes dismissed his desire for natural human relationships as a habit to be indulged, but he was as always concerned. There was a wealth of proof that the detective seemed to have no desire for anything other than challenges.  He tolerated most people for only as long as necessary, and in the year they had shared together Watson could count on one hand the people Sherlock chose to spend any time with. Still, he could not let these well-established facts stop him any longer. “I want to marry her.”

Holmes’ eyes flared as he snapped them back to the doctor. “Don’t be preposterous.”

Watson felt himself soften. “Her name is Mary.”

Holmes shook his head. “Well, Mrs Hudson will never allow another woman in the house. It is not viable.” Pausing he flicked a match alight with his thumb and lit the pipe he was sucking on. “I would forget it if I were you,” he breathed out in a puff of smoke.

Watson felt the advice tickle at his waning anger. “Then I’ll move out. Set up my own surgery.” Watson faltered just a little under Holmes’ unrelenting piecing gaze.  “It will be nice.”

“Nice?” Holmes spat the word as if it tasted so bad he couldn’t bare it in his mouth.

“Yes nice!” Watson turned away; he did not need his friend’s disapproval. “There is nothing wrong with nice, Holmes.” His plan was made and he would stick to it. Stepping towards the door he vowed to retrieve the morning paper and find new premises immediately.

“You’ll get bored.”

“I won’t,” Watson answered without turning.

“You’ll miss...”

Watson paused as Holmes did, his hand resting lightly on the door handle.

“…the dog.”

“He’s my dog and he will come with me.” Watson’s shoulders slumped as he pulled on the door, suddenly eager to escape the claustrophobic feel of the room, only for it to slam shut again at double the speed.

Holmes’ hand reaching over Watson’s shoulder forced the wood back to where it had begun and banished all distance between the two men’s bodies as he crushed against him.

“You can’t go.” His voice was now a whisper as his lips brushed against Watson’s ear. “I can’t let you.”

Watson’s entire body stiffened. His world shrunk to just the pair of them, and his mouth dried instantly. He hadn’t even heard Holmes move, but now his senses were on over drive. Holmes smelt of the pipe he had just been smoking and his breath was warm on Watson’s neck. His body however was cold, no doubt from being out all night, but as always solid beyond what it portrayed.

Turning slowly, barely even breaking their full body contact, Watson met Holmes’ deep eyes and swallowed hard. The sparkling eyes that normally gave the impression of working on at least three other problems, as well as what was in front of him, were firmly focused on Watson.

 “Why?” Watson demanded voraciously after a second, his voice shaking more than he liked, but he needed to know, needed to hear.

Moving his hand from the door, Homes dragged it excruciatingly slowly over Watson’s shoulder, down his arm, to his hand, and...

“You have my evidence, old boy.”

Watson felt the words like a body blow; Holmes’ agile fingers entwined with his were quickly removing that golden signet ring he had placed there earlier.

“Of course,” Watson shook his head, as if it were alcohol clouding his thoughts. “Of course.”

“Not much of a case without this.” Holmes chuckled as he stepped away, the ring now firmly back in his own possession. “Still, I guess you’ll be getting your own soon enough,” he baited, his voice a tone darker than just a second ago, his eyes briefly flicking back to the doctor.

“I will!” Watson confirmed immediately, as he ignored the feeling of loss, the cry of his body. Gripping the door tightly behind him there was nothing to stop it when it swung wide open now. Tearing his eyes from his best friend’s back Watson turned quicker than before. The world that he had momentarily forgotten came rushing back with nauseating indecency.

 “And you’ll be happy, will you?” Holmes’ voice froze him again as he stepped across the threshold. 

Looking over his shoulder, Watson saw Holmes hadn’t even turned to look at him as he’d asked. Instead he was holding the ring he had retrieved up to the window, studying it with those quick eyes.

“I will,” he confirmed, and pulled the door closed behind him with a slam shutting out the detective. “I have no choice.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be H/C

Watson closed the front door gently, behind him, and shook the rain from his hat as he removed it. Cautious of the noise each movement made. It was late approaching, if not past, the hour on which one day turns into another.

As he started on the stairs he knew Mrs Hudson would be in bed, but it wasn’t her he was concerned about. If Holmes were at home he would no doubt be deducing from every step exactly where Watson had been all day. He would somehow know he had spent the morning in the park, reading the paper and the afternoon visiting various houses advertised in that paper. Holmes always knew these things and despite how much a guess it would seem he always had a perfectly logical, once lay bare, reason behind it.

As he reached the landing Watson paused outside the door, to their shared sitting room. It was closed as firmly as when he had left. If Holmes were not on a case, and in what he often referred to as ‘the dumps’ Watson would lay money on the fact that it hadn’t opened the whole time he was out. Holmes wouldn’t have accepted food instead imbibing every liquid, toxic or not, within reach of whatever corner he had curled himself into. 

Watson took a step towards the second set of stairs, leading up to his bedroom. He didn’t need to worry about Holmes tonight, he was working. Wasn’t he? The doubt turned him full circle to look back at the door.  If he were working surely some light would escape it, unless of course something had happened?

Watson shook his head at himself. He was worrying like the mother hen Holmes always teased him of being. He just couldn’t help it. With Holmes there was always the possibility of something having happened. He had to look. He knew it, just to check. If he didn’t he would simply lay in bed unable to sleep until something, anything, reassured him of his friends safety. Whether that be the pluck of a violin wafting up through the floor boards, or the explosion that rocked the whole house he would wait for it.

Opening the closer door to his own rooms Watson stepped into his surgery. There was ways of checking on Holmes, and ways of checking. He had learnt some time ago that surprisingly directly was not always the best approach, when dealing with the detective. 

Closing the door behind him, Watson was amazed by how dark his small room was. Pausing for a second he blinked a few times to encourage his tired eyes to adjust to the gloom. It wasn’t that he didn’t know his way around in the dark. He did, more precisely than he probably need to. For he knew it took exactly five steps to get from the door to the corner of his desk, because Holmes had told him so, six if he’d been drinking and four if he was using his cane.  But if living in such closer quarters with Holmes had taught him anything it was to expect the unexpected. Just because it had been five steps to his desk when he had left this morning, did not meaning his eccentric friend hadn’t been in and moved his belongs, like for example the time when he had decided everything in the house must face north for the entirety of the day. Gladstone hadn’t been as cooperative as the detective had liked.   

He attempted to move quickly when whatever cloud it was saw fit to move from in front of the full moon and allow it’s silvery light to stream through the window and illuminate his path.

After only one step Watson was instantly struck by another worry. The connecting doors between his and Holmes room which he had intended to sneak around to check on his friend where firmly shut. This unexpected development just served to raise his concern higher. The doors where never shut. Not unless Watson was seeing a patient, and it had taken weeks of arguing, when they had very first moved in, to enforce even that basic rule.

Taking a deep breath he reached for the handle. 

 “You smell of her.”

Holmes voice made him jump before he had even slid the door an inch.

“Holmes?” When no response came Watson forced the door to move, and finally realised why they were closed and equally so hard to open. The detective lay on his side, with his back against the doors.

“Rose water, with a pinch of lavender, and If I am not mistaken English lavender, the common variety, I would guess from somewhere near the cost, Dover perhaps? She obviously wanted something homely, un-offensive, warming.”

Watson simply sighed, as he lowered himself to the floor of the surgery, sitting next to his friend. “Who, Holmes?”

“The Marvellous Mary Morstan of course. Oh my! What wonderful Alliteration.”

Watson throat just tightened, as Holmes repeated the name again and again, drawing out the M each time until he begun to sound more like a braying sheep than the finest mind in London.  “Mmarvellous Mmary Mmorstan, Mmmarvellous Mmmary Mmmorstan, Mmmmmmarvellous...”

“Holmes!” Watson snapped, jarred by the collision of his two lives. Suddenly he felt a fool, unable to believe he’d truly though Holmes did not already know every nuance of his blossoming relationship

 “I thought your day for visiting that woman was a Thursday,” Holmes suddenly spoke clearly once more. “That is her day off isn’t it? But forgive me, my friend, is it not Tuesday?”

Watson closed his eyes, and leant back, resting against the door frame. Holmes was obviously intoxicated, and he dreaded to think of by what. “It is Tuesday.” He admitted reluctantly, knowing full well there was nothing to be gained by lying to Holmes.  “I saw her tonight on whim. I wished to share my news.”

 “You found new lodging, on only your third viewing.” Holmes spoke tonelessly. “The house is not too small, but not large, the rent is right, if you take only five more regular patients a week. You shall finally be free of your troublesome roommate. I have no doubt she took this news well. Her embrace was slightly longer and tighter than usual, as you said goodbyes. Her lips...” 

“Stop, Holmes!” Watson cry echoed around his tidy chambers, but despite how it looked he couldn’t bring himself to be angry about his friend’s perfectly correct deductions. He knew half the time these facts came to Holmes without him even trying to reach for them. Instead Watson felt something closer to embarrassment, and he found himself immensely grateful the detective hadn’t turned to look at him, as he had spoken. “Just...Stop.”

 Holmes for once did as he was asked, and silence felt upon the two of them.  It wasn’t their usual companionable silence however, this was cold, and hard, and Watson felt awkward in it. Instantly he looked for a way to reconnect the link he had just severed with his friend.

 “Seeing as the details of my day is of no mystery to you, will you share with me yours?”

“No.”

The childish response brought a smile to Watson's lips. As much as Watson could in no way compare himself to Holmes in being able to read other people, he did have some confidence in being able to read Holmes.  Poking his friend in the back he preserved. “Come Holmes, what of your case?”

Holmes uncharacteristically flinched away from the physical touch, and Watson felt concern touch his heart.

“There is no case, just a worthless subterfuge. Unfortunately you proved as little challenge to me as the rest of the world does.”

“Me?” Watson’s concern now edged itself with intrigue, and he leant closer. The combination of emotions was an alluring mix for the doctor. Just one of the many reasons, no doubt, why he had lodged with Holmes for so long.

In the darkness he leant over his friend.  “Whatever do you mean…?” The question died in Watson’s throat along with his interested in the answer, as he finally noticed a familiar smell below that of the stale alcohol lingering on Holmes. This one caused a bitter taste in his mouth and a quickening of his heart, “Holmes you smell of…blood! Are you hurt?”

Holmes reply came quicker than before, but in exactly the same tone. “No.”

Watson’s free hand was on Holmes shoulder before the detective had even finished answering, and forcefully he pulled him onto his back, and into view.  

The hiss that escaped Sherlock’s mouth as he fought not to wince at Watson’s action’s barley even registered to the doctor.

“Oh, Holmes,” Watson’s couldn’t halt the sigh escaping him, as his eyes took in the detective’s face. A swollen lip, a cut on the left cheek, matching one on the temple, tracks of mud, sweat, and of course blood stained everywhere Watson’s eyes darted. As his quick professional mind catalogued all he could see Watson felt something inside of him twist. Even in only the moon light the injuries looked raw, and painful. As much as it hurt him to see the great detective like this, it angered him at the same time. “What have you done?” he demanded, shaking him just gently by the grip he still had on his shoulder, knowing full well this was not likely to be the result of some random violence.

“Leave me be.” Holmes snapped, as he attempted to roll out of Watson’s grip, and back into the shadows of his own room. “If you intend to leave, you might as well leave me now.”

Watson hand’s tightened holding the detective in place. Did Holmes not know him better that that by now?

“Let me see.” He demanded, refusing to brook any of the detectives’ theatrics.

Holmes continued to twist, his legs and hips turning when his shoulders couldn’t.  Still he couldn’t break the iron grip of Watson, and his actions only managed to force another pained gasp past his lips.

This was the last straw for Watson; he wouldn’t allow the detective to hurt himself any more than he would tolerate him self-medicating.  Moving instinctively in the only way he could think of to keep him still, he straddled the detective’s hips, in a move he hadn’t used since the war.

The action worked, and almost instantly Holmes stopped moving, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. With mock outrage he attempted to scold the doctor with a cry of his name.

“Watson!”

But the doctor didn’t hear it. For a second he was in another place, sat astride a different patient. His thighs gripping tight, the full weight of his own body the only thing holding down the screaming boy below. His left arm pressed hard against the throat of a young soldier, while his right hand attempting to remove shrapnel from the flesh above the boys’ heart with little more than his army knife.

“Wat-son?” Holmes second call, softer this time, hitched in his throat as the doctor reflexively squeezed his thigh’s and aggravated injuries he had yet to find.

The sound of pain pulled Watson back to the present, and his eyes locked on to the detectives. “Holmes?”

“I’m here.”

Reaching out with a shaking hand Watson couldn’t resist the urge to touch him, just to make sure. His fingers curled gently around the detective’s face, and his thumb stroked along his swollen bottom lip.  

“You’ve been fighting Holmes.” He eventually managed to force an accusation through his ever tightening throat.

Holmes regarded him for a full second before reached out to touch a small spot on Watson’s collar that would and could mean nothing to anyone but the detective. “And you’ve been dining, my dear Doctor, The Royale? You should know better, The 54 is not a good year to go with the steak.”

Watson lips pursed and he shook his head gently, although long accustom to Holmes deductive powers, they never failed to impress him. “Well done, Holmes.” He congratulated as he forced himself to remove his hand from Holmes face and reach up to his own.

Reluctantly he pulled the detectives warm but injured fingers away from where they lingered tentatively against the sensitive skin of his neck. “Now let me examine you?”  

“Have at it, dear boy.” Ripping his hand from Watsons grasp, Holmes threw his arms wide only to bring them together behind his head. “Your pleasure is all mine.”

Watson shook his head again, but moved quickly before Holmes changed his mind. “There is no pleasure in this, Holmes.” He lectured with his un-shy fingers reaching for the detective’s shirt. Not that he was certain the bloodied and dirty piece of cloth could even be called that any longer, hanging together as it was by only two buttons. Both of which he sent skittering across the floor in his haste to expose the extent of Holmes wounds. “I don’t know how you can think...”

Watson’s words disappeared as his eyes finally lit upon the tight skin of Holmes’ torso, and the wounds it carried. The running total of Holmes injuries double in his head. Multiple grazes filled with dirt and god knows what else, a bloody gash above the left hip, severe and extensive bruising to the right lower sternum indicating a few cracked ribs? Watson couldn’t help the quick prayer that ran through his mind with the last diagnosis, but he could confirm it. Letting the material drop instantly from his hands, he moved to place them gently on the detective’s hips

“Just a turn of phrase my good… WATSON!”

Holmes pained cry of his name sunk the doctor’s heart, and he froze. His skilful hands stroking up the detective’s chest confirmed what his eyes had told him, but he hadn’t wanted to believe, Holmes was hurt and bad. The rib below the worst of the swelling was broken in a least two places. His sensitive finger tips trained to feel just this could distinguish the exact points where the bone moved freer than it should. The feel of what he had dreaded sent him jumping to his feet.

After all this time of bruises and fractures, Holmes had finally managed to break himself. Watson did not need Holmes skill to work out how; the dirty point of a boot scarred the skin above the injury. Worryingly enough this was not an uncommon sight in their shared sitting rooms. It seemed when faced with a truth they didn’t like London’s criminal society favoured putting the boot in.

Before he had even reached his desk and the medical supplies located there Watson snapped his head back to the, for once, surprised looking detective. “Don’t even think about moving!”

Holmes instantly took the order as he did with every single one he received; as a challenge. “Not even for my pipe?”

Watson felt his hands clench in frustration. “If you do,” he begun forcing himself to turned away, and begin to gather supplies. “I’ll find my chloroform, and you won’t see a thing until next week.”

Holmes attempted to chuckle, but winced instead.

The noise grated on Watson and he had to fight the urge not to run back. Instead he concentrated on keeping his hand still enough to light the oil lamp on his desk.

Only when it gave off enough light to work by, and his arms were full of all he needed, did he return to Holmes side.  

On his knees once more Watson bent low over Holmes, and held his breath so he could listen to the others.

“How is your breathing Holmes?” he demanded. A lesson he had learnt long before going to war, about listening to a patient’s feeling as well as their body, often served him well even now. Waiting for the answer he felt Holmes eyes on him, but he ignored them and simply sat back. Turning the lamp brighter did nothing to help diminish his worry in fact, quite the opposite, the light gave new depth to the injuries he had thus far catalogued.

The answer he was waiting for didn’t come until after he had torn some fresh gauze from his roll and uncorked the small bottle of medical alcohol.

 “As good enough to keep me alive. Why?”

Watson barley even acknowledged the answer. Instead hereached to Holmes far hip, with the cleaning cloth. Pressing gently on the wound as he swiped at it, he felt for any foreign objects that needed removing. “and Taste? What can you taste?”

“Regretting the steak already are we?”

“Holmes!” Watson’s temper snapped as he worked a small shard of glass from the detective’s skin. “Tell me!”

“No,” Holmes shook his head, but gave no reaction to the doctor’s actions. “Not another answer unless you tell me for why. The dark is no useful a place for me, than a world without crime.”  

Watson stayed silent as he continued to clean the worst of Holmes lacerations. “Confess to me your other pain’s...” He spoke eventually as he tossed yet another blood soaked cloth away, “And I will tell you of your worst.” As content as Watson was to let Holmes be master in every other aspect of their relationship, when it came to the sick bed Watson called the shots.

Holmes took a deep breath obviously considering the deal, and Watson bit the inside of his mouth just gently to keep him from reacting as he heard it rattle in Holmes chest.

Slowly Holmes began to move and lowered his hands from his head offered the right to Watson, “My fingers are a little...”

“Two fractures, one dislocated...” Under the light Watson found it easy to diagnose what he had seen before, and even easier to fix. Gripping Holmes small wrist with one hand, he quickly pulled on the worse injured digit, with hope that it was before Holmes realised what he was doing. The pop of the bone moving back into place echoed loudly around the room. “...no more.”

Holmes simply palled a little, and Watson couldn’t help but the little pride he felt in knowing that no one else would even be able to notice such a slight reaction in the stoic man.

“Watson please?” the detective spoke once his colour flooded back. “A little warning next time. Much more of your doctoring and I shall be looking for my opium.” 

Watson squeezed the fingers he was now strapping together a little too hard. “No opium Holmes.”

“Ah enlightenment only then.” Holmes smiled, “I do believe we had a deal?”

Watson simply nodded, he didn’t back out of a wager. No doubt a fine attribute for a gentleman, Holmes had pointed out once, but the cause of more trouble than it was worth at a gambling table. “You’ve broken your rib Holmes.”

Holmes stared at him for so long Watson wondered if had actually spoke. “Doctor you do have a flair for the dramatic, we are not living in one of your scribbles now. If that is, then it is nothing new. Bind them and let me return to finding something worth my attention.”

“Your attention is worth more than The Blue Ship,” Watson named the worst fighting pub he could think of down on the docks. No doubt the place Holmes had received such ill treatment. “But Holmes you fail to see.” He paused to fight against a smile, how long had he been waiting to say that to the detective. “I said broken, not cracked, it is completely different.”

Holmes pouted like a chastised child. But still it didn’t stop his mind working. “How so?” 

Watson took a deep breath, as much as Holmes bemoaned at him for filling his head with useless knowledge, he knew ultimately Holmes would settle for nothing but the full details.

“It is hard to break a rib, but dangerous when you do. At the point of break the bone could, push inwards or out.” Watson used his hands, and the tips of his fingers touching, to illustrate as he was talking. “If the ends are sharp, and push out, it would rip your muscle, break the skin, and we would likely see it.  If the bone push in it will likely puncture you lung, you would find it hard to breath, with increasing severity. You will taste your own blood, as your lungs begin to fill. With no oxygen your lung would eventually collapse and you would...” Watson paused unable to vocalise the possibility of losing the person that meant more to him than the rest of the world. “You would...”

He stopped again but this time because he felt Holmes hand squeezing his thigh reassuredly.

“As you are telling me this and not signing my death certificate just yet, I presume neither has happened.” Holmes spoke with clarity in his voice that had been missing up until now.

“Neither,” Watson agreed, and was thankful that he could. “But every time you move, the chance of them shifting is present.”

“So what I am to lie here forever? You plan to parade clients in front of me charging them a sovereign a time to look at the detective who can not move?”

 Despite his worry Watson smiled for the first time since finding Holmes hurt. “I might if you think yourself worth it?”

“Worth it my dear? I am worth double, but before we make you rich and me a sideshow, I have one question.”

“Yes?”

 “Are you sure of your diagnose?”

Watson knew not to be offended by his friends question but it still hurt to think he had no faith in his skills. “I am.” He confirmed, and touched his fingers gently to the detective worse bruise. “I can feel it.”

Watson wasn’t sure why he was surprised when less than half a second later Holmes nimble fingers inter-wound over the top of his. Holmes mind was more intrigued with something it didn’t know than anyone’s who had ever lived.  Pushing gently he moved the fingers to where he knew they wanted to be.

“Here,” He guided, running the stained fingers across the bruises. “Press gently now, and it shifts independently of the others. Can you feel?”

Holmes eyes drift shut and Watson ran both their hands over the same spot time and time again, increasing the pressure a little with each pass, until Holmes finally gasped. Watson pulled away instantly, terrified that he had pushed too hard and forced the bone out of alignment. Thankfully Holmes next words reassured him.

 “Yes, yes, I can feel it!” He enthused his eyes now open and sparkling. “It seems you do have some training after all.”

Watson rocked back further on his heels, another small wound from another of Holmes barbs. He would really think he was resilient to them by now, and yet still he knew it would be something that kept him awake in the small hours. If he ever got to bed that was.

“All I can do is bind them, tighter than normal this time.” He turned to business. “But it is risky. Too loose and a deep breath from you could push it out, too tight and...”

Holmes hand was on him again. “I trust you.”

Three simple words are all it took to wipe away Watson’s hurt, and he was once more under Holmes spell. “I need you to stand up.” He order his hands moving to Holmes back desperate to help him achieve the movement with as least pain as possible.

Shrugging of Watson’s shirt to leave it on the floor as he stood, Holmes looked across the room. “Do you want me on the couch?”

Watson froze momentarily at the question, but shook his head quickly, before he had time to think otherwise. With his hands lying on the detective’s hips, he faced Holmes away from him. “No no. Here is fine. When I say, I want you to raise your hands and reach up for the door frame. Breath out and stay there as long as you can.”

Holmes nodded. For once completely compliant, his eyes locked on the fireplace in front of him.

Watson paused, and leant forward to rest his chin on the detectives shoulder. “This is going to hurt.” 

Holmes didn’t even flinch. If anything Watson felt him relax a little as their body’s pressed against one another’s.  It was not unpleasant to be this close to Holmes, and thankfully not unfamiliar.

“I have lived with your skills thus far doctor. Pain is not unfamiliar to me.” Holmes spoke after a moment, his words sounding if they meant to tease rather than hurt.

Watson just exhaled heavily, and he felt Holmes shiver as his breath whispered across his neck. The movement encouraged Watson closer, and he pressed nearer to the detective. They stayed like that for only a second, a heartbeat maybe, but Watson felt instantly cold as he stepped back. The loss of Holmes’ touch hitting him far stronger than it should have.

Blinking to regain his focus, he noticed the tenseness had returned to Holmes body. He was waiting for the order. Watson didn’t keep him waiting long.

“Reach Holmes.”

As if Watson’s words were made of electric Holmes jumped at them, and stretched up as far as he could.

Watson paused knowing the detective wasn’t expecting what was coming next, but knowing he had no other choice. Slowly he dragged his hands up Holmes sides, over his arm pits, passed his shoulders and curled his hands firmly around the muscles of his biceps. With a deep breath he began pushing.

Holmes hissed under the movements, and Watson winced. He could only imagine the pain from injured muscles and irritated nerves that would be washed through his friend right now, but he had to be sure of his positioning.

“Enough.” Holmes pleaded after a moment, his head lulling back in a movement far more familiar to when Watson found him after he attacked his seven percent bottle.

Watson ignored the request, and the lump in his throat it created. Instead he just doubled the pressure. Pushing up until he was certain Holmes had to fight the impulse to rise onto his toes.

“Keep stretching.” Watson hissed through gritted teeth, when a moan escaped Holmes. “I can’t bind until I know the bone is in the correct place.”

Holmes seemed incapable of replying, and Watson wasn’t even sure if he could hear him anymore, but encouragements dripped from his lips, when finally he felt Holmes body shift to where he needed it to be

“Hold Holmes, Hold!”

Letting go, Watson pulled the bandage from where he had slung it over his shoulder, and begun to wrap.

One, two, three times Watson managed to pull the bandage tight around Holmes broken body before he cried aloud in a tone that all but broke the doctor’s heart, and he turned into a rag doll in his arms.

 “WATSON!”


	3. Chapter 3

The M word

-Part Three-

“Holmes!” the responding cry from Watson’s lips was involuntary, as was the way his knees buckled when the sudden weight of his friend hit him, and sent them both tumbling to the floor.

“Arrgh,” a second unbidden howl sprang from his lips as he hit the floor awkwardly, and found it harder than he remembered. His hands were too wrapped around the detective to enable him to break their fall in anyway, but even the hard jolt that went through both bodies was not enough to stir the detective. He was out cold.

Taking a deep breath Watson paused for a just a moment, in the sudden silence, before attempting to untangle himself. Had the half naked man splayed across him been anyone but Homes he may have felt a modicum of embarrassment, but he didn’t. All he felt was a wave of relief every time the bare chest beneath his fingers moved, expanding and contracting with apparent ease.

Manoeuvring the unconscious detective Watson found was altogether an easier than managing the conscious man. As he sat up, he pulled Sherlock to rest against his own chest, in an embrace of sorts.  A convenient lie on how it gave the best position for him to finish the job jumped into mind, giving him the excuse he needed for their closeness.

It didn’t however excuse the action that came after he had finished tying the bandage around the detective’s chest. But by that point he was too tired to care. Relaxing forward he gave into the unnamed impulse nagging at him without a second thought. With his arms wrapped tighter around the detective, he resting his head in the crook of Holmes neck, and pressed his nose against Holmes’ mass of dark hair. As the familiar scent that was so unmistakably Holmes assaulted him he closed his eyes and allowed himself a deep sigh that relaxed his shoulders. Strong tobacco and alcohol, If he were forced to break down that complex mixture of smells to its most basic of components than that was what it would be; strong tobacco and alcohol. But as with everything with Holmes it was so much more complex than that. Tonight there was the tang of blood clinging to Holmes skin, as if did far too often for Watsons liking. Salt from the river, was in that mix, as was dust from the city’s streets, and a chemical that Watson would never be able to name.  Somewhere deep beneath all of that was a hint of cologne. Watsons own brand, if he were not mistaken. Whether it had been simply transferred from Watsons shirt that Holmes had been wearing this day or just left over from when he had borrowed it, un-asking of course, to wear to the dinner they had shared several nights back, Watson did not care and could not tell.  

Sleep was beginning to call to him. The day had felt far too long before he had even arrived home. Now with his adrenaline waning, and the hour creping ever later, he was positively running on empty. Yet a single question kept him from resting fully, only a single word in truth, but it bounced around his mind like an insolent child demanding attention, like Holmes on a good day.

“I’m sorry,” Watson had to fight to make those words the first out of his mouth, when the detectives finally stirred against him sometime later. They could have been sat there twenty minutes or two, Watson wasn’t sure. But as he straightened the muscle twinge in his neck implied it was longer rather than shorter.

Holmes murmured senselessly against him a few times, before the light behind his eyes flared fully into consciousness, and he was attempting to twist in Watsons grip.

“Watson?”

“Don’t move, Holmes.” Watson ordered knowing that it was an all but useless gesture. Sure enough the detective ignored him, and continued to move until he had turned around completely.

“Don’t fuss, Mother.” He spoke starring directly into Watson’s eyes.

“Why?” Watson couldn’t stop that word that had kept him awake from pushing out. “Why did you do it this time, Holmes? Are we really so short on rent?”

“Not unless you cracked the safe this morning.” Holmes gave a little laugh, and for the second time that day a surprised look threatened his face. “Ahh but that doesn’t hurt.” His hands moved to his ribs. “Whatever would I do with out you?”

Watson bit his lip, he could see the path this conversation could take, and yet he couldn’t avoid it. “You’ll not be without me, Holmes.”

Holmes eyebrows raised in a quizzical look, as if he didn’t understand. “You’ll not be here.”

Watson flinched at the accusation. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Holmes had always preferred to hit the heart of an issue rather than skirt it. “Holmes. I’ll still be your friend.” He imploded. “Do you not trust me in that?”

“Until your wife is bored of two am calls.”  Holmes eyes were now looking everywhere apart from Watsons face, as he ignored the question.

“That is not going to happen.” Watson tried once more. “Mary is... she is not like that, she would not keep me from you, should you need me. Holmes if you would just meet her you will...”

“I shall not”

“Don’t be a child!” Watson snapped and fought against his impulse to rise and leave. “You shall, and when you do don’t jump to conclusions. No deducing her!” he held his finger out pointing it the same as he would had he been commanding Gladstone.

Holmes chest puffed out just a little. “I’ll have you know I have never jumped to anything, especially not conclusions.” He sniffed. “I shall treat her in the same manor as anyone I meet. If you wish me not to share what I find, well I guess that is your prerogative my dear Watson.”

Watson sighed. This wasn’t going well. “I do not doubt your deductive powers, Holmes. I just have no need of them. Mary is good and honest, she has told me...”

“Ah!” Homes interrupted him for the second time, and Watson couldn’t help wonder if he had truly seen the detective wince as he had spoken Marys name.

“If you do not _doubt_ me Watson, then you cannot _doubt_ my facts about what is to occur. Although the future cannot be seen but it can be deduced, as with everything in life.” Watson shook his head, but it failed to deter the detective. “Yes Watson the future can be very clear in some cases.  The fact that you will disappear from me is as certain as a captive tiger once loose will turn on its keeper.”

“Why is it?” Watson demanded anger rising in him at Holmes’ symbolism. He thought of himself as far more than a wild animal. “Have I not been a friend to you?”

Slowly the detective, seemingly bored of looking at shadows, turned his gaze back to the doctor.  “You have, and it is exactly your devotion to me that tells me of you future. When the woman usurps me in position of importance in your heart, all will be lost.  You have forgone patients, ignored appointments, jumped from you bed in the middle of the night when I have needed you too. So when she needs you to you shall do the same. Appointments with me shall be missed and forgotten. When I call you shall be swallowed in domesticity.”

Watson swallowed hard. Holmes was right on all the things Watson had and would do for him. It seemed pointless to deny he would do the same for the woman he professed to love, and yet the words were on his lips once more. “No, it shall not be like that.”

Holmes affected not to hear. “Before your honeymoon is done I shall be gone.”

“Gone, Holmes?” Watson felt panic rising in his chest, and his eyes automatically flicked to the last place he had found a bottle of that damned drug Holmes loved so well. He had thrown it away of course, just as he did ever time he found a bottle or syringe, but it had been replace just as quickly, and without so much as a word. They had long past arguing over such things. “What do you mean?”

Holmes of course could not fail to follow Watson’s eyes. “Gone from this place...” he spoke cryptically. “...from this time. Gone from our relationship. Maybe, my dear doctor I shall find need to replace you. Maybe I shall not. My life moved swiftly enough before you, I am sure it shall after you.”

“Holmes you cant! You wouldn’t!” That panic he had felt now twisted in Watson stomach. He hadn’t considered Holmes replacing him. He hadn’t intended this to be the end of their friendship, of their working together, he just need a little more evenness in his life, a little more normality.

“Can’t?” Holmes chuckled for the second time that night, seemingly amused at Watsons’ horror. “You only have to check last weeks mail to find a swarm of amateurs begging for involvement in my next case. I dare say a few could put pen to paper, and make a descent enough impression of my Boswell. Wouldn’t? Well now that is another question. One which I shall not answer, it is for you to deduce from all our time together. Absorb every fact you can, and find the answer as clear as your own reflection. I don’t doubt you have picked up some of my methods over the years to be able to at least accomplish this task.”

Watson swallowed hard. Holmes was teasing him, testing him, he wasn’t sure which, but he had no intention of playing along. “I don’t need to, Holmes. I can tell you it is not going to happen, because you will have no need of it too.”

Holmes rocked his head gently from side to side, as if weighing something up. “Another possibility is of course possible,” he spoke after a moment. “If your proposal were not to happen, then perhaps...?”

“It will.” Watson snapped, annoyed at Holmes apparent disbelief in him.

Holmes eyes squinted just slightly, and he leant forward to stare deeper at Watson’s. “Hmm. Perhaps.”

“Holmes I am telling you…”

“Hush!” Holmes' bruised fingers shot out and pressed against Watsons’ lips for a mere moment. “Let me see?” he asked. “Answer me a few question and I shall make up my mind.”

“Holmes.” Watson sighed. He had had enough for one night. He was tired and his mind was already confused. Holmes’ games would help him with neither state. “Why are you being like this can’t you just... be happy for me?”

The detective looked perfectly horrified for a moment before he spoke again. “Data, Watson, how can I be happy without data? I know not which way my emotions will fall on a subject until I have full knowledge of it.”

Watson sighed again, just perhaps if he gave the right answers this could be the end of it, “Fine.” He waved his hand. “Go ahead.”

Holmes' eyes seemed to almost glow in the dark, and he sat up a little straighter. His first question came before Watson had even time to take another breath. “Which of you mentioned the M word first?”

“I...”

“Think hard.” Holmes demanded. “I am not talking of just today. Ever.”

Watson rolled his eyes as he remembered. The answer he knew he had to give was not one that would end this easily. Still he knew there was no point in lying to Holmes. The detective would know it before the words even left his mouth. “She, Holmes. In a conversation about...”

Holmes' fingers pressed against his lips, once more, in a way that was becoming familiar. “No, no, no, I do not need pointless facts only those provident to the case at hand.”

Watsons dropped his head a little in defeat, and he pursed his lips in a promise to stay silent.

Holmes next question came the second his fingers left Watsons lips. “When does your contract for your new lodging begin?”

“Why, Holmes how ever did you know I have signed?” Watson was still not above being amazed by the detective, and his surprise burst from him before he had chance to curb it.

“Please, Watson.” Holmes just rolled his eyes, as he studied his own hands. “I am not the child you think I am. I do not need praise for the simplest of tasks. Keep your amazement for when you have not left me such an obvious clue as the ink stain on your jacket, and the admission you have already told... Miss Morstan of your… news.”

Watsons head spun. Hearing Mary’s name as forced as it was from Holmes lips felt somehow wrong. “Err...Two months time.” He eventually whispered, remembering the question. “The current tenants...”

“Ah ah ah!” Holmes silenced him again. “In all your walking along the streets of London today, did you once look in a jewellery shop window?”

Watson shook his head. He hadn’t thought of jewellers today, as focused as he had been on finding new lodging. Although he supposed he had to have passed many. “Why no I didn’t. “

“Ah.” Holmes’ face once more lit up. “You are correct things in that shall not go as I have sworn. Your intended engagement is only that, intended. It shall not materialise any more than this months rent shall.”  

“Holmes you are wrong.” Watson instant denial felt hollow. In as many years as he had known the detective he could count the times Holmes had been wrong on one hand. But this was different. He was going to marry Mary. He had made his mind up on that. Who was Holmes to challenge him on it?

Holmes simply shrugged, and took the statement with little offense. “Doubtful. You shown no interest in buying a ring, and I know you have no family heirloom you shall be planning on using. You remember quite clear her mention of marriage and even the conversation it was in because before then it had not occurred to you. Finally you are happy to wait two months for a new apartment because you are not ready to leave... here yet.”

Watson wasn’t sure what was more frustrating, the fact that Holmes conclusions were correct, or the fact that the detective seemed to hold more faith in them than in Watsons’ actual words. “Holmes I have to grow up at some point.” He reasoned. “I want a wife, a house a family.”

“Why?”

“I want …” Watsons’ words failed him. How could he explain all he felt he needed? All Mary made him feel? All everyone looked down on him for not having? “...Someone who will care for me.”

Holmes head tilted a little to the side. A sad smile tugged at his lips. “Ah a little truth I see. May I follow it with another?” He paused, and actually waited for an answer for once. Watson simply waved his hand. He could never deny Holmes anything. “I am tired.” The detective continued. “You may not tax me as much as most cases, but our conversation has worn me still. If you would fetch me a drink I hear bed calling.”

Watson was stunned for a moment by the sudden change of subject, before he gathered his wits, and remembered why they were sitting on the floor in the first place. “No... no more drink for you Holmes. “

“Why ever not?” Holmes forced an annoyance in to the question that most people wouldn’t have been able to pull off, giving the circumstances.

Watson starred straight back in to the demanding eyes. “I think you have had enough.”

Holmes shook his head. “But I haven’t touched a drop. My body is perfectly capable of using its own adrenalin to sustain it rather than alcohol.”

Watson didn’t hold back on his accusation. “You are lying.”

“I’m not, and if those are the kind of bets you would lay your weigh on, it is no wonder we struggle on more occasions than not. If I am allowed no drink I guess a syringe would be out of the question?” Holmes new found ability to wait for answer to his question was lost again, and he was continuing before Watson could open his mouth. “Help me to my feet. I do remember I pay for a bed somewhere in this god forsaken house.”

“No, Holmes.” Watsons hand moved to the detectives’ bare shoulder, pressing him down just gently. “I don’t want you moving tonight. The floor will do you. I shall fetch you a blanket, and pillow.”

Holmes responded with little more than a grunt. It was far less of an argument than Watson had been expecting. Quickly he forced himself to his feet before the detective could summon up a more coherent objection.

Once on his feet the doctor swayed a little, his exhaustion was starting to get the better of him. Looking around he realised he couldn’t bring himself to venture any further than his medical couch, in search for the supplies he had promised. Just because Holmes had offered no objection to his last order, that didn’t mean he didn’t trust him to be somewhere else entirely if he allowed him out of his eyesight for even the briefest of times. Gathering the thin blanket and both cushions, he stumbled back.  

Holmes had uncharacteristically appeared to have obeyed Watsons order, and was laying flat on his back. An action that only confirmed in Watsons mind that tonight’s injuries were painful indeed. He thought about offering his friend some pain relief, but knew that the offer would just be sniffed at.

As he laid the blanket over Holmes body, the detective looked up, a small but genuine smile gracing him. “Ah so now you are a nurse as well as a doctor,” he teased. “It is a good job I have no reason to miss you.”

Watson sighed, and looked down at the detective. He knew he should leave now, go find his own bed. Use the time away to clear his head, and yet before he even truly realised it he was lowering himself back to the floor.

“I am getting married.” He whispered, once he was laid next to Holmes, but sounding les sure than he had intended it. “I have already spoken to Mary she is agreeable to a proposal. I just need to...”

Holmes' eyes were already closed by the time Watsons words faltered, but that didn’t stop him continuing the thought for the doctor. “Carry out the act?”

Watson nodded, and closed his own eyes. “Indeed.”

“And then you shall be gone to your new lodgings?” Holmes voice sounded through the darkness as clear as a bell.

Watson yawned, “I shall.” 

“and then you will have someone who cares for you?”

“I will.” Watson sighed and turned away. The realisation that it didn’t matter what he said came a little too late. Holmes would never be able to understand. He didn’t crave the attention of others, didn’t care about gaining approval. Holmes had never wanted a family, or someone to love him back as strongly as he loved, after all he had never loved.

“Holmes,” he whispered suddenly turning to face the detective. “Why did you do it? Why fight tonight?”  

Holmes was silent for so long the doctor wondered if he was asleep already, or at least pretending to be so he wouldn’t have to answer. In the silence sleep crawled into Watson, and only when too far into a dream to be able to return, did he hear the softly spoken reply.

“Because sometimes the best you have is not enough.”

When Watson opened his eyes next, daylight was streaming into the room. A pain flared in his hip, and a warm body pressed along his entire length.

Holmes at some point in the night had evidently rolled onto his side, and Watson had pulled him in close, his larger body moving to curl protectively around the smaller one. His arm resting wrapped around Holmes’ slim waist. It was so comfortable there it almost felt as if it were made to fit.

They had woken like this before, and he liked it more than he cared to admit. Not that he could exactly deny the physical affect this positioning had on him. Not when it throbbed so hard, it was almost all he could feel. But this was different. This wasn’t sharing body warmth in cold shack. This wasn’t a forced position after being locked in a cell too small to lay any other way. There was no immediate threat to compel him to move, nothing to kill his growing interest, nothing except his own shame and embarrassment. Both of which this morning seemed to be slower to wake than the rest of him, for still he laid there even after he was fully awake, and luxuriated in the feel of a half naked body nestled against him.

He was a doctor, he could reason away his body’s reactions when Sherlock fidgeted in his sleep, and unconsciously pressing himself harder into Watson. Causing a friction that almost had the doctor groaning out loud. What he couldn’t reason was the sudden realisation that came only after the second time Holmes had moved that way. The knowledge that he hadn’t once so far wished that it was his soon to be wife squirming in his lap, extracting such reactions from him.

His face suddenly burned with shame at the thought of Mary. Good, clean, honest Mary, what would she think if she could see him now?

Instantly he bit his lip, and rolled away, dragging his arm from Holmes beaten body as quick as he dare.  Facing away from the detective he paused just long enough to ensure Holmes breaths were coming as easy as they needed before he found his feet and all but ran from the room.

Climbing the stairs to his room, Watson felt sick, leaving Holmes this morning, was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. How on earth was he ever going to move out? And yet he had to. He understood that now more than ever. That closeness he had shared with him last night or more worrying this morning, just confirmed he was doing the right thing. He had to escape, escape Holmes’ orbit now, or he never would. A wife was the right thing to acquire, a wife who would care for him for once. Someone who would not tire him to the ends of his endurance, someone who would not forgot what day today was.     


Closing the door behind him as he entered his own bedroom, he rested back against the wood, and took deep breaths.

Once finally his heart had calmed to a normal pace, he looked up and found a foreign scene in front of him. With a few steps he crossed the room and starred at his bed. Although still made as neatly as he had left it, a military habit he had never been able to break, it had a few new ornaments.

Sat direct in the centre of his pillow sat a small wooden box, a slip of paper, and a small pile of notes. His hands moved automatically to the money first. Filthy, crumpled, and with bloody finger prints marking the top note, he could have no doubts as to where this had been obtained. The spoils of Holmes’ fight he guessed. Flicking the notes through his hands he was amazed and yet unsurprised to find the exact number matched what he needed for his deposit.

His throat tightened and he dropped it as quick as he had grasped at it. His hand moved to the box next. The dark walnut was exquisitely inlaid with a lighter wood, but he had no time to appreciate the decoration. Pulling it open, with a pounding heart, he found inside the golden signet ring Holmes had forced along his finger yesterday. The only difference now was it was engraved with the doctor’s initials. JW.

The slip of paper still lying where it had been placed was Watsons only hope of an explanation. Snatching it up Watson moved with energy he didn’t know he had. Holmes’ unmistakable handwriting untidily scrawled across the page. Written after he had dislocated his finger by the looks of it, but Watson didn’t care. He devoured the words. 

 _Happy Birthday My Dearest Watson,_

 _I trust you will forgive my rouse, I wished to be certain of your size. Although your news devalues my gift perhaps my second will bring you brighter cheer._

 _Forever yours, Sherlock_

“Stay Watson?”  A voice from his door spun the doctor in a circle, and he found his friend standing there using the frame for support. He had been so engrossed in the words he hadn’t even heard the door opening.

For a moment he was breathless at the sight of him, all dark hair and white bandages. The soft early morning light even managed to mute the lurid bruises that littered his skin. Watsons’ eyes dragged across the body he craved to feel once more below his fingertips.

“Holmes I...” His breath caught in his throat.

 “Just one more case John.” Holmes seemed to almost surprise himself with the intimacy he created from the use of the doctor’s forename. Watson chest just tightened as he watched Holmes fight against his discomfort, and forced yet more awkward words he was so unsure off out into the bright morning. “I just need one more. If you intend to go I don’t know how I…” his eyes dropped to the carpet.  “One more?” he begged of it.

Watson looked down at the ring in his hand, and back to the detective’s bruised and vulnerable face, his heart twisted. Holmes had done that for him. He had risked his own safety for Watsons’ happiness. All because he didn’t believe the ring to be a good enough present. Closing his hand around the gift, he squeezed until he felt it bite into his skin. He wasn’t sure he would ever value anything higher.

“Just one more Sherlock. One more.”

 

Fin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's it hope you enjoyed. Pp x
> 
> P.s Apologise for any strange formatting, it's my first time posting over here and im trying to work things out as i go.


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